


before the sun sleeps.

by Gon (pepperedfox)



Category: Fate/EXTRA, Fate/Extra Last Encore (Anime)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:00:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22064413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pepperedfox/pseuds/Gon
Summary: "If there is no purpose for my being awake…” Leo taps his cheek. “Then it is my duty to seal myself away to await my promised time.”There is a purpose, Gawain thinks, and it lies in this cabin with you and I.---Gawain cooks one last meal for Leo before his slumber.
Relationships: Gawain | Saber/Leonardo B. Harwey
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16





	before the sun sleeps.

**Author's Note:**

> this is a secret santa gift for @llangendary! the timeline of this fic takes place after twice convinces leo to advocate for humanity's destruction... hope u enjoy! a lot of creative liberties were taken but it's abt the aesthetic......... *chef kisses fingers*

Gawain tracks the seasons with a hound’s diligence, for time in the Moon Cell is a quarry more elusive than a fox. A challenger will one day breach the seventh floor, whereupon he would gladly draw his sword as his king’s knight. Until then, there is only the two of them. That is reason enough to plow the hills, to plant reminders of a passing year.

A sword is not a farm tool. His hands were trained for war, not for communing with the earth. There are tricks to altering the environmental code and, had Gawain begun his endeavors at the start of their contract, Leo could have uncovered the tricks. His young Master would have knelt to plant with him without a care for the withered sprouts, the dead seeds, would have cheerily talked on about everything and nothing with Gawain. But that Leo is long gone. Gawain is on his own.

For the first three years, the land withholds its harvest. The floor remains stubborn and yields no quarter for the knight. By the fifth year, Gawain has learned how to properly arrange his seeds so that the base code may accept them. In this fashion, he pins the passage of time with onions, cabbages, strawberries, and tomatoes.

On their ninety-ninth winter, he unearths his finest crop of potatoes to date. Gawain extracts each one by hand and washes them in the brook’s clear, chilled waters with his bare hands. He thinks of savory pottages with fragrances rich enough to warm a dining hall gripped by winter’s winds; of Gareth stealing a bite of pudding when the kitchen knaves were occupied and sharing the sweet guilty pleasure with him. He is so lost in his thoughts that when something wet touches his cheeks, he is surprised. He touches his cheek, looks up, and finds that clouds have gathered in the ever-blue sky, loosing swirling flakes.

For the first time in decades, winter has truly come to the seventh floor.

* * *

“No one else is here,” Leo declares. His countenance remains regal but there is a telltale undercurrent of disappointment. He had come running for Gawain shortly after the snowfall, brimming with a rare eagerness. No order was necessary. The two combed the floor with restless energy and turned up with nothing, save for cold feet and colder faces.

“It seems so.” Gawain leads the way, tamping down the snow to create an easier path for Leo. The strange weather has washed the hills with white, erasing all color. He thinks of his vegetables and is grateful he’s harvested them before this bizarre occurrence.

“Snow aside, there’s been no change to the floor’s code.”

“Indeed, milord.”

“Perhaps it’s Twice’s doing.”

“It could be, milord.”

It’s an unsatisfactory answer and the bitter taste of it is clear in Leo’s eyes. Any change is welcome after a near century but the novelty of this weather won’t last. Sun, snow, or rain – none of it mattered, for they were still waiting in purgatory. Leo can’t help himself. He comes to this conclusion straight away and this odd landscape’s charm is ruined for him. His irritation follows him as puffs of white, trailing after him as steam did from a dragon’s nostrils.

“… Gawain.”

“Yes?”

“Why are you smiling?”

So that’s why his cheeks feel warm. Gawain bows his head even as he continues to plow through the snow. “Forgive me. I meant no insult. I was thinking of how pleasant it is to be in your company.”

They are words unbecoming of a sword, true as they are. It has been several long decades since Leo moved with such energy. So many years were dedicated to watching the horizon that his Master forgot to set his feet upon the ground where Gawain steadfastly stayed. Not that he had any complaints over their arrangement; a king should reign high above his subjects. That is the natural order of things, lonely as it may be.

“You’ve committed no affront,” Leo says. “It has been a long ninety years.”

“Ninety-nine, Leo. It shall be one hundred, come tomorrow.”

“A century, then.” The finality of the statement frosts between them. “This may be your longest post yet, Gawain.”

“It is nothing to me,” Gawain answers, “for my body, mind, and heart are in your service. Until my sword rusts to nothing, I shall continue to wait upon you.”

“Yes, you’ve demonstrated this well.” Leo turns his face towards the mountains. Time has crawled forward for him. He is no longer a prince but a man, a fair youth blossoming at last. Once, Gawain had served beneath a king with the eyes of a dragon and the countenance of the sun. He sees the glimpses the same power with how Leo holds up his head, how he bears the discomfort of the elements without a flinch – but his eyes, how dull they’ve grown. How hollow. “How much longer should we be expected to wait, I wonder?”

“It is hard to say, for few Masters, if any, match your caliber.”

“Is it a matter of caliber?”

“I would say so.”

“If it were, things would be different.”

Gawain knows who Leo refers to. He does not speak her name. Instead, he ventures to say, “A new century approaches, milord. May I humbly ask a favor of you?”

“You may.”

Gawain tells him. Leo’s eyebrows rise in surprise.

“You can cook?” his Master asks. Gawain bows his head. Again, the smile touches his lips.

“So long as I am your sword, I am capable of anything.”

“A chef who says he can cook and a chef who can cook are two different things.”

“That you would bestow the title of chef upon me is an honor in itself.”

There is a flicker of the old Leo in those eyes, an impishness Gawain well missed. His Master allows himself to smile and says, “I’ve yet to give you anything, Gawain. Let’s see first if you’ll burn the floor down.”

“Milord…”

* * *

In Gawain’s past life, the preparation of food was left to the kitchen staff. A knight of the realm had no business stooping to the level of commoners but there were times when one was traveling and needed nourishment. He knows enough to be confident in making a dish that won’t poison his Master.

They take to the cottage situated in the crook of the mountain, near the freezing waterfall. Decades worth of dust has gathered within and the first obstacle Gawain must vanquish. He rolls up his sleeves, ties a scarf round his nose and mouth, and gets to sweeping. To his surprise, Leo joins in as well. His Master wields the mop with ample enthusiasm, leaving no speck of floor untouched. With their combined efforts, the air is breathable and a fire is stoked to life in the oven.

Meat would be the easiest dish, for all that’s necessary is to skewer it over Galatine’s flames. But there is no game to be found in the seventh floor. Life is not meant to flourish here. Thus, he turns to his harvest. Gawain hefts the large burlap sacks onto the table and, with a shake and a slap, sends all his vegetables and fruits rolling. Leo plucks at the leaves of a sizable beet.

“This is all yours?” Leo asks.

“Yes. Nourishment is important for growth and morale. Even if Heroic Spirits need not food, the soul grows richer from a hearty meal. It is so, even for kings.”

“Then prepare your harvest well, Gawain.” Leo tosses the beet into the air, then catches it with ease. “I will judge whether your cooking is worthy of my taste buds.”

“I will rise to the occasion, I swear to it.”

He will make pie, for it is something that needs little tending to and will be more than filling. There is good flour in the cupboard, and it is easily kneaded. Leo watches from the table, a steaming cup of tea between his bare hands, and it feels as if the cabin is made a little brighter by the softness of his features.

“What are you preparing, Gawain?”

“Brie pie and barley-lentil soup. They were dishes favored by my mother, as they required little work. I am afraid I cannot replicate the delicate touch she had but I am confident that what I present will be delicious in its own way.”

“What about gingerbread?”

“Gingerbread?”

Leo nods, draws a man shape in the air with his finger. “I’ve heard that gingerbread men are common holiday treats. It is New Year’s Eve, isn’t it? We are relatively close to Christmas. Gingerbread men are a delicacy I’ve yet to taste – and I would very much like to pass judgement upon your attempt.”

“I’m afraid that is a recipe I am unfamiliar with.”

“Oh, that is no problem.” With a few rapid strokes of his fingers, a hologram springs up before Leo. Various bread men of all shapes and sizes march across the screen, swept aside with relentless objectivity. “This one, Gawain…! This will do!”

“Ah,” Gawain says, regarding the chosen design with a smile. “A gingerbread prince, I see. He would make a fine offering for any royalty.”

“Then you will make him?”

“I shall do more than the trifling minimum, Leo. To honor this occasion, I shall prepare an entire batch so you may eat to your heart’s content.”

How long has it been since he’s seen such a bright smile on his Master’s face? It is as if the sun has risen again, the light that’d been snuffed after their defeat rekindled. For Gawain to feel in such a way is dreadful, for his loyalty to Leo should be unwavering and steadfast – yet he cannot help thinking to himself, _I am glad he is Leo again._

Leo watches with keen eyes, not a detail escaping him as he sips his tea. Soon, the air tastes of sweet carrots and baking yeast, and it is as if they have escaped the Moon Cell. This cabin is a slice of humanity afforded to them, a pocket of softness and calm in a world desolated by sin and war. In here, Gawain could almost forget the Holy Grail – could almost forget Twice. He is a weapon honed for war, but even weapons long for a sheath to rest in.

All is ready within the hour. Leo has already drawn up his chair, a handkerchief tucked into his shirt’s collar. He indicates his readiness with a nod. Gawain folds his arm across his chest and bows.

“Milord, your humble servant presents to you what he hopes is an adequate feast.”

Pie, golden-crusted and steaming. Soup, with the rich hues of the earth. And in neat little rows sit the gingerbread men, each crown carefully dotted and squeezed with as much precision as his large hands could give.

Leo holds up a hand. “Hold, Gawain.”

“Yes?”

“Is it not the responsibility of a king’s subjects to taste for poison? Come. Have a taste of your own creations.”

He isn’t sure how to take such a command. It must be clear on his face, for Leo impishly smiles and raises a spoon.

“It is an order, Sir Gawain.”

“… as you wish, milord.”

The soup melts in his mouth, warm as sunlight. When he swallows, Leo already has a slice of pie upon his fork, which he holds out in expectation. He takes that too and, to his surprise, finds it so pleasing that he lingers long enough for Leo to clear his throat.

“If I could have my fork back…”

Heat raises to Gawain’s face. “A thousand pardons.”

Masters and Servants have no need for food in this cybernetic realm. And Leo, who always has his eyes affixed on the stars above, has always avoided indulging himself. A king ought to focus on his people – a king ought to look towards eternity – thus, a king has no capacity to exist in the here and now. That is why Gawain devoted himself to Artoria, and it is why he devotes himself to Leo. Little distractions, such as baking gingerbread men, are ridiculous luxuries a king should not partake in.

But as Leo eats, the veil of the king falls. Something softer takes its place, a glimmer in those emerald eyes that shines brighter with each bite. When it is time for the gingerbread men, Leo tackles them much how a child would: first the legs, then the arms, then at last, their heads. Gawain watches all this in proud silence.

“Gawain,” Leo says after the last mouthful, “that was better than I expected.”

“You honor me, milord.”

“These gingerbread men… no, gingerbread princes.” Leo pushes back his hair. “In the real world, Christmas and New Year’s was a time for solidifying alliances. I was beyond such silly things the moment I could walk. That is how a king is, you understand. One must wield their power as soon as they are able. I must say… what you’ve prepared for me has far exceeded my expectations. Thank you.”

“If you so wish,” Gawain says on an impulse, “I shall bake you another batch come next year. They will be twice as large and twice as delicious – nay, I will prepare an entire kingdom of gingerbread for you to enjoy, if you but say the word.”

“… a gingerbread kingdom, huh?”

“It will be a true delight.”

Leo looks at Gawain. “Saber.”

“Milord.”

“I’ve made up my mind long ago. I will be going to sleep tomorrow. I don’t know when I’ll wake up.”

There is a too-long hesitation from Gawain’s end. The warmth of the meal begins to sap away. “I beg your forgiveness, but I must ask. Are we not still waiting for a challenger to come?”

“It’s pointless to wait like this. Nothing changes in this land, Gawain. It is paradise, but it is a paradise devoid of a people. How can a king rule a land without subjects? Though I am to be humanity’s judge and jury, I undermine the importance of my role in delaying sleep. I will squander unnecessary energy. If there is no purpose for my being awake…” Leo taps his cheek. “Then it is my duty to seal myself away to await my promised time.”

 _There is a purpose,_ Gawain thinks, _and it lies in this cabin with you and I._ But he does not give voice to such thoughts. A knight serves in whatever capacity he can. A sword’s purpose lies not in doubts and regret, but in being used. If his wielder dictates that he is to be put away, it is his duty to comply. Thus, he bows his head.

“I hear and obey, my king.”

How perfect his Master’s countenance is, how bright his determination and courage. Leo does not falter. He simply smiles, and it is an expression worth a thousand summers.

“Thank you, Gawain. I will certainly dream of your gingerbread. And when the time comes, I’ll have you cook for me again.”

“As you wish,” he answers, and the words taste bittersweet on his tongue.

* * *

A hundred years have come and gone, and with it, that miraculous winter. Spring claims the floor and marks her territory with blooms of all colors. Gawain suspects it is Leo’s final parting gift – a touch of paradise to symbolize the coming years of peace and solitude. It is a grand gesture a knight is unworthy of, but he has no choice but to accept it.

He no longer farms, for there is no one else to cook for. All his attention is on the flowers, for he knows that, if the land falls into disrepair, it will be a poor reflection on his Master. Gawain knows not when the challenger will arrive. What he does know is this: he will tend to these lands and wait, for Leo has trusted him to be there upon his awakening.

He raises his head. High do the mountains soar, and though he cannot see it, he knows his Master slumbers upon their peak. The sky is falsely blue, a springtime lie, for there is no sun to grant light to the seventh floor. Gawain kneels and does not rise.


End file.
